Saturday, April 4, 2009

The Ailing One

The old woman shifts in her bed
The curtains fly, the birds twitter.

Sun had never wished to trade,
Gold spill on every pauper's feet.

The old woman cries
Pain ties her to the bedsheets
The son's care,
The granddaughter's touch
Effaced by fate's wipe.

Death in its usual outcast's ways,
Her tears track moments suffered
In wait of the cloaked nomad.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Nitin's Kite(part 3)

The clouds were a herd of huge grey elephants trampling down the sky, making loud noises. The thunder crashed as two or three of them struck their tusks together. As he was looking at the sky he fell headlong into the water. Now no one could save his kite from total destruction. After a few minutes a grown up picked up the half crying, half coughing wet Nitin in his arms. This was his elder brother. Seeing a queer shape under Nitin's shirt he took it out and threw it into the water. Nitin was brought home in another few minutes.
The next day was the Viswakarma puja. Due to continuous rainfall there was not a single kite in the sky much to the relief of Nitin who now had nothing to envy. He sat gladly at the door of his house catching fish from the still flooded field by dipping his towel.

Saturday, September 13, 2008


He ran with all his might. Tiny dried leaves and mud got stuck to his feet. His face and hands were all wet. The wind troubled him by making his unruly hair fall on his face. The rain drew wet patterns on his clothes.
At the edge of the field the clump of mango trees started. He had spent many happy hours there in the summer. But now in the rain he did not like it at all. The leaves were like rough licking tongues, the wet stems of the creepers seemed like slimy snakes. The narrow continuous stretch of sky above the clump was like a long grey snake spitting out venom from every inch of its body. The drops pierced Nitin.
As if to hide the absent minded patterns on Nitin's shirt the rain started painting his entire shirt with its wetness.
As the clump came to an end he got a hazy view of the old temple. He ran towards it only to find it closed. There was not even a little shade near it.
When he came to the last field it was flooded. His hut was a small island on the other side of it. Swimming through the water would take him faster across it.The kite was already wet but he wanted to save it as much as he could. So he waded through the flooded field.
It seemed to him as though the field would never end. It was the very old field where he had played so many times with other village boys. But now it looked like a sea of murky grey water. He could not see the hut anymore. He did not even know whether he was in the right direction.
The water was rising. At first it was up to his thighs, now it touched the tail of the kite, that was at his waist. Something slimy touched his feet. It was a snake from the pond. As the pond had got mixed with the flood water snakes were moving everywhere. With anger, disgust and sorrow Nitin moved on.
(The rest of the story will appear next week)

Sunday, September 7, 2008

This is a children's story I wrote when I was 15 years old.

NITIN'S KITE (part 1)

Nitin was returning from the village school . The sky looked as though it had just come from under a cart that had crossed muddy grey paths. It worried him not just because his home was faraway but because his home was faraway and he had a kite in his hand. His slate and slate pencil were pushed into a tiny bag stitched from various pieces of cloth by his mother. The kite was too large to fit in it and even if it did the cloth bag would not be able to protect it from rain.
Now for the kite. It had the depiction of a black lion with golden mane on it. He got it from an older boy in his school. Not that he gave it to Nitin out of generosity. Nitin had to give away his entire tiffin in exchange.
So Nitin was hungry. Still he was happy. He thought about flying the kite at Viswakarma Puja which was on the next day. He could not participate in the fight of kites since he had only one kite and he did not want to lose it. Besides he was too young to have the skill to cut the strings of others' kites without cutting his own. He would just let the kite go higher and higher towards the autumnal cumulus clouds.
He walked as fast as he could to reach his house before the rains started.
But it had to happen. As he was walking through a field and had still to cross the mango tree clump, the old temple and another field big drops started falling from the sky. He quickly put the kite inside his clothes. His figured must have appeared strange with the rhombus object kept across his thin body. In no time the rain started falling even more heavily. He hoped that the old temple would be open where he could take shelter.
(to be continued next week)

Saturday, August 30, 2008


A cold wind passed,
My expanding thoughts-
Solidifying water
Cracked my skull.

Thorns prick,
And deeper.
They crowd
On all sides.

The fire
Licks my flesh.

The waves push me to mock
As I sink slowly.

I struggle to take another breathe,
Can I....

(This poem was written by me many years ago but I recently made some changes to it.)

Sunday, August 24, 2008


"I've never heard of the gang"
He screamed as pins pricked
His finger tips.
Shutting his eyes so hard
The eyeballs might've been pushed
To the back of his brain,
But how could he sedate his nerves?

They left him, locked
To bring back monstrous
Relics from Cretaceous times.

His nerves just stopped squirming
Like the eel fished out of the sea
Released to a puddle,
Soon to resume the death pain.

He cupped his hands,
Boring his fingers into the face
That resembled the criminal's
His neat life shredded apart,
He attires himself in chill
To bring back escaping vapours.

( This poem is from my book 'One Hundred Poems' published by Writers Workshop. Next Sunday I will post one of my unpublished works)

Saturday, August 16, 2008


They gave you a silver bowl
They forgot you have
No food to keep in it.

They gave you a necklace
They didn't notice
Your collarbone would subdue it.

You've got chandelier
But where's the ceiling?

They gave you gold pitchers
But the river has dried,
The wells lidded and taps
Releasing blood.

Talking of blood,
New fuel when the earth
Fails to leak the old one?

( another of my poems from my book of poetry One Hundred Poems published by Writers Workshop.)